I transposed a letter and told them I’d been “writing in dairies.” 

I wonder what it would be like to set up shop among the stalls, between milking times.  Swollen udders and pregnant thoughts snuggled in a barn together.  What does lowing sound like and is it a good soundtrack for writing?  Do cows recognize contemplation or would they be annoyed with my non-utilitarian presence, wondering why I was taking so long to start milking them? 

My dad grew up with cows and used to describe to us the rolling rhythm of milking.  First you grab the teat up close to the udder with your thumb and forefinger.  Then you roll down one by one until each finger is grasping it.  Pull down and squeeze.  

It sounded more intimate than I was interested in being with a cow.  When I understood how uncomfortable a full udder is for the cow it sounded compassionate.

Writers need this:  to be our own farmers, committed to the chore.  Farmers don’t stray from the farm or the routine.  The rest of life is built around it or adapted to it.  Vacations, trips to the city, the timing of dinner.  The worn paths to the barn – the ones that seem like just part of the scenery – are created over decades, in all weather and seasons, whether the farmer feels like it or not. 

When it’s time, it’s time. 

And then there is the milk.  Cream.  Butter.  Ice cream.  The sweetness and savor of life, from the rhythm of two times a day.